Some people say that TV, movies, and computer games cause violence. Other people say “What about the Crusades?”. And thus the argument rages on … until this video was posted on the internet

YouTube – Real Wolverine Claws – Homemade – X-Men.

That’s right. Real Wolverine claws.

Comic books cause violence, it’s official. It would appear that they also cause engineering, which is not as bad.

Webshooters next?

Scott from Comic Book Outsiders has set up a Twitter bot that will be re-tweeting any tweets that contain the words “Bristol” and “comic” over this weekend.

Follow the bot here: http://twitter.com/BristolConBot

An excellent, albeit short, interview with Alan Moore and Kevin O’Neill by the guys from Geek Syndicate is now now available online.

Alan’s advice? “Self publish“. Phew, glad I was on the right track!

More MWM Live practice. This one took a little longer, had trouble getting rid of the word “crawl” from the list of random words.

Travis woke up, still tied to the bed. He couldn’t see Laura, but could hear movement downstairs. Cups clicked together, water pouring. He guessed that she was making tea, and was surprised that he didn’t immediately want some. Looking up, he could see why.

Banging on the surface of the mirror that hung above Laura’s bed, desperately trying to break through from the other side, from whatever place it was that lay on the other side of Laura’s mirror, was a carbon copy of Travis. The copy’s skin looked parched, cracking in places, and it clutched at its throat from time to time. Behind it, other versions of Travis crawled across the surface, like men trapped under ice, their mouths open in soundless screams.

“There’s no point looking at them,” said Laura as she walked in, holding the predicted cups of tea. “They never do anything else. They are such base creatures.”

Her voice was emotionless and yet Travis did not find it cold. There was some pure about it, some clear and resonant, like listening to church bells chiming on a quiet morning. He realised it was not the world that had become quieter though, but his own mind.

“Will I miss them?” he asked. His own voice, although not quite as clear as Laura’s, had a clarity that he had never experienced before, as if the world moved slightly aside to accommodate his words.

“No,” replied Laura. “The mirror is so greedy, it always takes the needs first. Another few days, and you will never want or need anything again.”

“I thought so,” replied Travis. “I heard you making tea, but didn’t think for a moment I wanted any. I’m sure I used to love tea.”

“You did,” said Laura, “But now you are free even of that foible.”

“Man unbound …” whispered Travis, remembering the name of the book that Laura had given him, back at the very beginning of their bizarre experiment.

“Not quite yet,” Laura countered, and poured the boiling tea across Travis’ chest. “We have still to remove your pain, and your fear.”

But Travis didn’t hear her. The part of him that was screaming in pain was already trapped on the other side of the mirror.

More practice for Monkeys with Machineguns Live!

Found a fantastic site for generating random ideas, http://shortstoryideas.herb.me.uk/index.html, which I will blog about later. In the meantime, here’s the end of the line.

Vera had heard about the telephone box. It was the last one left in the county, apparently, sitting quietly on the corner of the village green. It was never vandalised, unlike the play area just a few yards away, never put into service as a make shift toilet or short term accommodation for teenagers overcome by hormones and cheap cider.

No, the phone box just sat, and waited for you to make a call.

It was after John left, that Vera used it.

“It is only for emergencies,” Vera’s mother’s voice rang in the ear of memory as, with a trembling hand, she took hold of the telephone box door’s shiny brass handle. “Real emergencies”.

Vera caught sight of her reflection in the glass. Dark rings surrounded her bloodshot and tear ruined eyes. Her hair had taken on a peculiar shape, mirroring her dishevelled three-days-on clothes.

“Real emergencies,” she whispered to herself, and opened the door.

Inside, the telephone box was silent. The outside world seemed a million miles away as the door shut behind Vera with a soft click. Vera had never been inside the phone box before, but she had heard descriptions, in the rumours and the stories that people told from time to time.

She looked at the sturdy gunmetal grey telephone case. She gingerly lifted up the handset. As she had been told, there was no dial, and nowhere to insert any money. Just a grey metal box, a handset … and a voice at the end of the line.

“Hello?”

Vera jumped, involuntarily. “Hello?” she replied.

“Hello. This is the voice at the end of the line. Can I help you?”

“It … it’s an emergency,” said Vera.

“We understand,” replied the voice. “Tell us what you need, Vera”

Vera didn’t even flinch at the mention of her name. Her mother hand told her that the voice at the end of the line knew things, things about the people in the village.

“It’s Steve, my husband,” said Vera. “He’s left me and …”

“Do you want him back?” asked the voice. “Back can be … difficult”

“No, I don’t want him back,” replied Vera.

“Good,” said the voice. “Then let us discuss your options”.

More MWM Live practice. This time I try to fit Hitler, a museum, and a monkey covered in jam onto one side of A5.

It is a little known fact that Hitler maintained a secret museum, three storeys below his bunker in the heart of Berlin. At first, it was home to the ransacked treasures of the nations crushed under the Nazi jackboot but, as the war came towards its end and Hitler’s mania for the esoteric and the occult reached its height, the museum became home to artifacts and relics of a very different nature.

On the final night of the war, it was Private Klaus Gunderson who held the keys to the museum. Loyal to the end, he believed it to be the safest place in all of Berlin. And so, naturally, he brought his wife and child there, sure that the Feurer would approve. She was good, Arian stock, their child a blond haired, blue eyed boy.

He walked with them both through the cramped aisles of the private museum, their small talk designed to drown out the sounds of bombardment and fighting from above, but failing miserably.

“What’s that?” asked Klaus’ wife, pointing a shadowy, hunched figure in the darkness.

“That is a stuffed monkey from the court of Louis the Sixteenth of France. We liberated it from the Bastille.”

“It has been … mutilated?”

“Louis had his private surgeon stitch bladders into the creature so that he could be breast fed his favourite foods by it. When we took it from them, the French had it full of jam.”

“Amazing. And how about this?”

Klaus took the bottle from his wife and studied it carefully. “I believe we took this from the body of a British spy.”

He turned the bottle over in his hands. Although his English was not terribly good, he could read the simple inscription.

“Drink me …”

With a thunderous crash, something hit the bunker from above. Boxes toppled in the museum, throwing up a thick cloud of dust.

Klaus could hear shouting from upstairs, and splashing noises. Someone shouted something about kerosene, and that the Feurer must not be captured, no matter what the cost.

“What should we do?” asked Klaus’ wife.

Klaus took a last look at his wife, uncorked the bottle, and drank.